


If Not, It's Okay

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Background Relationships, First Meetings, Fluff, Love at First Sight, M/M, Relationship Advice, Speech Disorders, Stuttering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 10:00:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17578751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Gil faces his worst fear and talks to a cute boy.[Infatuated PruCan.]





	If Not, It's Okay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadowcatxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcatxx/gifts).



> Behold, the most delayed Christmas present of all time xP

Gilbert first saw him in the library.

He always sat at the same table, the one tucked between the atlas and the potted plant. He always wore a thick red sweater and faded blue jeans. He always had earbuds in his ears, the chord threaded under his hoodie and into the kangaroo pocket, where his phone presumably rested. He never talked to anyone. He never even signed out any books. He just sat with his notebook and his pen, and he wrote.

He was beautiful, too. Golden curls, violet eyes, red-apple cheeks when he came in from the cold outside.

Gilbert’s goal was to talk to him. As it was, he was creepily watching a younger guy in the library—which had only become a frequent haunt after the accident. The best thing about the library was also the worst thing, before the accident: it was quiet. No one got into deep conversations here. Which made his goal a more difficult prospect.

With his particular problem, though, it was borderline impossible.

Before the accident, he would’ve been painfully awkward by default. He was albino, so confidence was hard to come by for a good amount of his life. Now that he’d bulked up with his brother, it wasn’t so bad. A classic slap in the face from Fate: just when he started feeling better about himself, he took a tremendous blow to his self-esteem. And to the throat, of course.

He never knew how many important nerves there were, tucked behind his Adam’s apple. He never knew how much he took speech for granted, until he had to fight to get it back.

Really, what he was most grateful for was the fact that they’d switched positions before the second game. If Antonio hadn’t been replaced by a different goalie, if it had been his best friend’s knee that rammed into his neck . . . He would’ve been able to forgive, but he didn’t want that on Antonio’s shoulders. His friends were already haunted by the accident as it was. Needless to say, they hadn’t played soccer again since.

The only interaction he’d had with the beautiful boy in the library was also when he found out his name. Gilbert was pretending to read a history book and watching him out of the corner of his eye. He picked up a larger pile of books than usual, which was perhaps why he wound up dropping his library card. When Gilbert went over to retrieve it, he couldn’t help but glance at it—Matthew, a name just as soft as the boy it belonged to—before he looked up. There stood Matthew a few feet away, watching him with nervous eyes.

Gilbert couldn’t hope to speak. Impromptu talking was the hardest for him. As soon as the words _h_ _ere you go_ appeared in his mind, his throat squeezed shut. Helplessly, with as polite a smile as he could manage, he held out the card.

Matthew accepted it carefully. The dainty plucking didn’t even allow for a cliche finger-brushing. Matthew just flashed him a sweet, grateful smile and hurried out.

Oh, that smile.

No going back now. He was hooked. Gilbert had to see that smile again.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t work up the courage to talk to him. His fear supplied him with plenty of excuses not to. It was an interruption, which was inherently rude. Matthew was so cute, he probably already had a boyfriend. Maybe he even had a girlfriend, who was he to assume? Or maybe he wasn’t interested in a relationship, and that’s why he sat nestled as far from other browsers as possible. And on top of all that, even if he did like guys and want to date one right now, why would he want to put up with the hassle of talking to someone like Gilbert?

He tried to keep his infatuation a secret, but that was futile. His friends sniffed it out barely a day after he learned Matthew’s name.

“Gil has a crush,” Francis announced out of the blue one evening.

“He does?” Antonio playfully kicked Gilbert’s ankle under the card table. “On who? Is he hot?”

Gilbert glowered at his beer.

“I know you do,” Francis insisted. “This is the third time tonight you’ve folded, looked out the window, and sighed.”

“What’s his name?” Antonio asked eagerly.

“It doesn-n’t m-matter.” Gilbert kept his gaze on his cards. When he was totally relaxed, he could get through short sentences without a single stammer. But the tenser he got, the harder it was to speak. The best thing he could compare it to was a pasta roller. Sometimes it got jammed, and you had to crank really hard to get anything to come out, and the result was buckled and torn and ugly. But, as his speech therapist told him: _If you don’t get the bad out, nothing good can come out after it._ Or, in other words, it was just like healing any other injury. It got worse before it got better. It’s just that in his case, you didn’t see the scar—you heard it.

“You shouldn’t be afraid to talk to people,” Francis told him gently. “He won’t mind if you have a little trouble, just like we don’t mind.”

“Yeah,” Antonio agreed with a determined smile. “And if he does mind, you’re too good for him anyway.”

Gilbert felt a faint smile on his lips. “I do-on’t know wha-at to say to him.”

“Don’t say anything. Just let your body do the talking.” Antonio got up to shake his hips at Gilbert until he shoved him away. Antonio cackled with glee. “Or give him some chocolates. Or a rose, Lovi loves roses.”

“Roses are romantic,” Francis admitted. “But maybe not during introductions. That is overkill. Just try to get his attention,” he advised. “And give him a smile when he looks at you. If he smiles back, go over and say hello.”

Gilbert was dubious, but he figured he’d give it a try. After all, Francis had been with more partners than anyone Gilbert knew. The track record may have been a bad sign, but the important bit was that he’d broken the ice with that many different people. It was possible.

He repeated the steps over and over again in his head as he got into position the next day. Drop the book, pick it up, turn to smile at Matthew, wait for a smile in response. _Okay. Bravery. Do it, Beilschmidt._ He took a deep breath, then pretended to fumble the book. It thumped to the floor, much louder than he’d anticipated. He hurried to grab it, glanced over in Matthew’s general direction—and found a pair of girls staring at him. He had the smile pre-programmed, so his lips did as they were told and curled upward. Both girls smiled back before walking away, whispering to each other. Gilbert’s ears burned. Behind where they’d been standing, Matthew sat, pen in hand, scrawling away. Totally oblivious. Had he looked up and back down again already? Or was his music just too loud?

After that, he’d more or less decided to give up, but his friends weren’t having that. More specifically, his friends’ lovers, who’d been enlisted to help when Gilbert’s previous attempts proved fruitless.

“I don’t know why you’d go to tops for advice on how to get a bottom,” Lovino mused, filing his nails. “I mean, it takes one to know one.”

“Ahem.” Arthur blew on the coat of black polish he’d just finished applying. “Speak for yourself.”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” Lovino rolled his eyes, then turned to Gilbert. “Just _talk_ to him. Don’t bother with some clever spectacle. That won’t impress him. It’ll just make you look like an idiot.”

“Put together some thoughtful sentences in an order that makes sense,” Arthur said. “That’s what impresses me, these days.”

“And if it goes well, give him your number,” Lovino finished with a light shrug, as if it was just that simple.

Gilbert shook his head. It was already embarrassing to discuss relationships with these two, before every word out of his mouth was a passion project. “What . . . do I say?”

Lovino smiled, which he always did when Gilbert got out a thought without stuttering. Gilbert wasn’t sure if he realized he was doing it, but he liked it—even if it did feel a tad patronizing.

“Hi is a good place to start,” Arthur told him.

Gilbert raised an eyebrow.

“Just be yourself. None of that best-self, first-impressions rubbish. That’s just false advertisement. Just say something like _hi, could we talk?_ Then he can say no if he wants to and you’ll know for sure to get lost. You don’t want to get stuck in tense silence.”

 _Wonder what that’s like,_ Gilbert thought wryly.

“Whatever you do, don’t use a pick-up line.” Lovino shuddered. “I still have to spank Toni every time he finds a new one.”

Arthur smirked. “Francis wishes that was the only thing he got spanked for.”

Gilbert made a big show of putting his hands over his ears. He would’ve said _lalalala_ but he suspected it would get caught in his throat. When Arthur and Lovino were looking at him again, he lowered his hands. “I’ll ge-et too nerv-vous.”

Even now, almost a year later, hearing what became of his words made him want to hang his head, close his eyes, disappear.

To his surprise, it was Arthur who placed a black-nailed hand on his wrist. “Then practise it,” he advised, green eyes far more compassionate than his voice. “Memorize what you’re going to say, so you don’t even have to think about it. You can just go up to him and say it.”

So, although it felt ridiculous at first, he practised. He wrote out what he wanted to tell Matthew and practised it everywhere he went—saying it in the shower, mumbling it between the aisles of the grocery store, rolling it over and over in his head in places he couldn’t speak aloud. Eventually, it just became a rhythm as familiar as a song on the radio. He could say it without any too-noticeable stammering. He hadn’t done it in front of anyone, but he didn’t want to weaken it by handing it to someone else, or opening it up to critique. He was ready.

He barely slept that night. Then he went to the library.

Matthew wasn’t at his table.

He hadn’t considered this possibility. He checked the shelves, but he wasn’t there either. What if he didn’t show up? Was this a sign? No. He didn’t believe in that stuff like Arthur and Antonio. He picked a German book to pretend to read and sat down at a table, to wait. After ten minutes passed, he wondered if he should be at Matthew’s table. Then he would _have_ to see him—but that would definitely be creepy, to be _waiting_ like that. And Matthew would probably just go right to a different table. Gilbert wiped his hands on his jeans. He’d leapt into bar fights with guys taller and wider than him, but talking to a slightly chubby, sweet-faced boy in a library was giving him a sick stomach. What was wrong with him?

Or, more accurately, what _else_ was wrong with him?

He looked at his reflection in the black screen of his phone. White hair, pale skin, reddish eyes, and a crooked nose from being broken not once but twice (Antonio was responsible for one of those). And, besides the stutter, he’d never been able to get rid of his accent. He was certain Matthew would rather listen to something other than his jumbled growl. Who thought German accents were sexy?

He stood up. This was a lost cause. He was better off getting into some online relationship with someone he’d never meet. He turned to walk out of the library.

Matthew walked in and sat down at his table, earbuds already in his ears. Within seconds, he was writing. He looked just as lovely as he did every other day—no, better, because the wind had tossed one flyaway curl apart from the others so it hung down over his forehead, just waiting to be wrapped around a finger.

Gilbert took a deep breath. _Do it. Just talk._ But what if he forgot his lines? What was he starting with? Hi? Or was it hello? He stepped over to the table, heart thumping faster. He opened his mouth—but his throat felt so tight, oh God . . .

At the last second, he turned and scuttled into the shelves, to return his book to its place. _Damn it!_ He was getting himself too worked up. He was ruining this. How did Antonio and Francis have such ease with romantic gestures? And why was he so inept with them?

_Alright. Enough. You’re not leaving this library until you stop being such a coward and just talk to him._

He breathed in. He breathed out.

_Be honest. Be yourself. Say hi._

Gilbert strode over to the table before he could stop himself and forced out, “Hel-l-l-lo.” He could feel himself blushing with the effort and shame of pushing out the syllables, but he made himself continue even when he had to grasp the top of a chair to steady himself. “I-I’ve been tr-rying to talk to you fo-for a long time. I thin-nk you’re b-beautif-ful and I-I’d love to m-maybe get to know you.”

He could’ve dropped to his knees, he was so relieved to get all of that out. He hadn’t said it overly loud, but he didn’t dare look to see if anyone had overheard. He just watched Matthew.

Slowly, he looked up at Gilbert with those amazing violet eyes, widened by surprise. He didn’t take out his earbuds. He didn’t say a word. He just flipped to a new page in his notebook, wrote something, and turned it so Gilbert could read:

**_I’m deaf. Sorry :(_ **

Gilbert stared, awed, for a long moment. Then he held out a numb hand. Matthew placed the pen on his palm. Gilbert bent over the table to write a response in his blocky handwriting, then rotated the notebook so Matthew could see.

**_Don’t be sorry. My name is Gil, and I think you’re beautiful. I have a stutter, so it’s easier for me to talk this way too. If I’m not wasting your ink, could we write together? If not, it’s okay._ **

Matthew took a moment to read it. Then he looked up at Gilbert again.

And he smiled.

  


_The End._


End file.
